A Gamblin' Man
by Garrae
Summary: "If she hadn't had that thrice-damned third whisky she wouldn't have bet more than she could really afford to lose, or indeed have got into the poker game with him at all." M-fluff. All characters belong to Marlowe, ABC, et al.


_Mobazan, again. Need I say any more?_

* * *

She should never have had that third whisky. Never. But Castle had been lining them up and it had been a rough case – children had been involved, and a dead parent, and it really had _not_ gone well even though they'd caught the killer in short order and the kids had been okay, mostly – and some liquid consolation in company had seemed like a very good plan even before the first glass and it had only become better and better as the alcohol went down.

If she hadn't had the third whisky she wouldn't have let her normal control of her thoughts and emotions slip. If she hadn't had the _second_ whisky she wouldn't have fallen for Castle's insinuating sympathy and started swapping tales of their separate pasts as the bets on a poker game. Maybe neither would he. And if she hadn't had that thrice-damned third whisky she wouldn't have bet more than she could really afford to lose, or indeed have got into a poker game with him at all.

Not money. If only it had been money. He'd conned her. It wasn't fair. She was the cop and he was _not allowed_ to con her. He'd promised that he wouldn't bet anything he wasn't prepared to lose, and on her fearsome growl and glare had even promised that it wouldn't involve clothes. Unless she wanted it to, of course, he'd leered. He'd lost the leer when she twisted his ear into a pretzel.

So she'd thought it was perfectly safe, and she was a good card player – she had beaten him in the past – it had always been even enough for her not to worry this time. And there they had been in a back booth at the Old Haunt, both two whiskies down and counting, with a dog-eared pack of cards that Greg had produced from under the bar.

In the fluorescent bullpen strip lights of the morning after, that looked like her first big mistake of the previous night.

First they'd bet stories. Not just any story, oh no. Stories that the other hadn't heard, about themselves. After four hands of that – and the whisky sparking in her stomach and loosening her tongue – the bet had switched up – to be stories which were a little more revealing. First, a time as an adult when you cried. That was easy. How she'd felt when her father gave her his watch. How Castle had felt the first day he left Alexis at daycare.

A switch of mood – funniest date. That was fine, too. The boy who'd taken her to a scary movie and then she'd had to walk him home because he was spooking at every single shadow but she wasn't scared at all. The girl he'd invited to junior prom who'd accidentally stabbed him with her stiletto and then sprained her ankle because she couldn't walk in heels that high – he'd had to carry her up the path from the car and her father had pulled a shotgun on him because he thought Castle had spiked her drink.

Then they'd gone back to more serious matters – almost maudlin, as the third drink went down and the night drew on. The stories got bleaker, and their separate pain began to mingle, until Castle had insisted that it was all too depressing and come up with a new bet entirely.

"Let's bet something different, Beckett."

And she had been stupid enough to say, "Sure, Castle." In the harsh light of hindsight, that was insanity sufficient to have had her committed.

"Body parts."

"What?"

"Body parts. We'll bet the use of a body part." She'd opened her mouth on imprecations and disagreement, but he'd – very swiftly – kept talking. "Say you bet a finger. If I hurt my finger, you'd give me yours."

"I don't get it," she'd said plaintively. That had definitely been the whisky. She was never plaintive: that was Castle's trick.

"Ummm… if I bet a kidney, and you needed a transplant, you'd have first dibs on one of mine." He smiled, a little lopsidedly after three whiskies – so she'd thought. "C'mon. It's not like it's ever gonna happen, is it?"

She should never have agreed. She should never, ever have trusted Castle. But mostly, she should never, ever, _ever_ have drunk two whiskies and then played poker through a third. It was all her own fault, really. But that didn't make it any better as she sat there the next morning.

They'd started small. A fingernail. If she broke a nail, Castle would give her one.

"So does that mean that I get to paint the nail you're lending me, Castle?"

"If you like," he'd said casually. "Alexis has insisted on a lot worse. Did I tell you about the ballet skirt?"

She should have been more suspicious about the casual tone. She should have been more suspicious about the wide, delighted smile. She should _definitely_ have been more suspicious when he tapped her finger and insisted on taking her hand to inspect the nail polish up close. But she'd been reassured when he put her hand back down again without doing anything untoward. Yes. Reassured. Not disappointed. Not at all. There might have been a small pout: barely big enough to be a poutette. But probably not. If she hadn't been drinking the third whisky, she _would_ have been suspicious. She was professionally suspicious. That was her _job_ , dammit.

"Oh," he had said, as if it was the clinching argument, "if you lose something, if you win a hand after then you can either take it back or choose a different body part. And nothing inappropriate." That should _really_ have made her suspicious. In fact, she should have walked out right then. That damn whisky…

She resolved never, ever, to drink whisky again, there at her desk, staring at her screen, alone in the crowded bullpen.

It had started small and silly. Fingernails, of course, and she promised him bright scarlet polish, so he bought the fingernail back next time he won. Earlobe – that was because he wanted to show her how it felt when she tweaked his, so he said. She bought that back, quickly, just in case he meant it. Toes – she offered him a pair of heels to go with them, and it took them ten full minutes to stop making Rocky Horror references and laughing. By the time they finished laughing for long enough to speak their bets and to carry on they were clinging to each other, and somehow there didn't seem to be a reason to let go.

And so it had gone on. Then Greg had wandered over and apologetically pointed out that it was after midnight and he was due to finish in ten minutes unless Mr Castle wanted him to stay on.

"No, Greg. Thanks. We'll be done in a moment." He had smiled. "Last hand, Beckett." She had still been within his arm, just the same as they had been for the last hour, a little tipsy, a little silly, a lot more comfortable with each other.

" 'Kay. Your bet."

"Heart."

"Huh?"

"Heart, Beckett."

"But…"

"C'mon. I promise I have no undisclosed health conditions."

"Okay."

He won the hand. He _won the hand_. He'd won the hand and he'd conned her into that bet. He'd conned her into thinking that he wasn't just a gambling man. Spent her night in sin, she had. And the misery had followed right along behind it. She sat and thought about moving to New Orleans. Plenty of blues there. She would fit right in.

"I've won," he had cheered. "I've got dibs on your heart, Beckett, if I need it." He had hugged her, and somewhere in the tipsiness it had felt right and the whole matter was another shared joke. They wobbled out the bar still attached to each other and Castle left a tip for Greg and somehow they ended up in a cab to hers for coffee because she wasn't going to be working tomorrow and it wouldn't matter if she fell asleep late.

"Wha…?"

"Wake up, Beckett. We're here."

"Home? Already?"

He had smiled down, beautifully. "You fell asleep. On my shoulder. C'mon. You promised me coffee."

"Okay." Going up in the elevator they were still tucked together, holding each other up, close-snuggled and it all felt so perfectly right that Beckett didn't even _consider_ that it might have been all wrong.

The coffee woke her up a little: just enough that she wasn't falling asleep on Castle all over again. Just enough that it mingled with the whisky and put her into a state where she was awake enough to know exactly what she was doing and relaxed enough actually to do it. They drank their coffee in peaceful comfort, still cuddled together and smiling and open and easy and anything was possible as they gradually moved closer and closer and closer together and when she looked up and he looked down suddenly there was no space between them at all any more.

When he kissed her he tasted of coffee and whisky and _Castle_. She teased and tickled until he opened to her and that lit the fire with petrol. He hoisted her into his lap and took her mouth until she turned the tables by opening his shirt and sliding soft, evil fingers over his chest so he gasped: which gave her the perfect chance to steal _his_ mouth and plunder as she pleased. She could have kissed him for ever.

Of course he essayed a raid of his own. Her shirt was as open as his and they were skin to skin, chest to chest and still kissing, hands wandering around each other's neck, or shoulders, or inside the opened shirts to touch and tease and stroke and scrape and learn. Gradually the kissing became less of a testing of each other and more of a mutual seduction; hands became slower and softer and smoother; the initial explosion a little damped from explosive searing flames to a far hotter banked fire that would burn for far, far longer.

So she had thought.

She nibbled his lip delicately and withdrew to tickle tiny kisses around the slight stubble on his jaw, finding the curve of his neck and a spot which made him groan out _Beckett_ and tighten his arm around her and pull her back under his mouth, devouring her and then, when he had fired her up all over again, sneakily opening her belt and pants without her even noticing before his wicked, wicked hand slipped inside and it felt so _good_ that she fell back against his arm, open and receptive and ready for whatever he chose to do next, her own retaliatory actions deferred to the scalding sensations pouring through her.

"God, you feel so good, Beckett," he growled, and moved his fingers through her. She dug nails into his shoulders and hauled his lips back on to hers and suddenly the whole alignment flipped as she dropped back on the couch and he loomed above her and she was trying to kick off her pants to give those naughty, talented fingers proper room to work. She heard her pants hit the floor and slide across the wood – and then she simply stopped thinking in favour of hard deep kisses ricocheting from her to him and back again and his fingers moving in time with his tongue and she _would_ have reciprocated but she was so wound up that she couldn't even move her hands from his muscle because it was the only thing holding her to reality.

And then he slid a broad finger inside her and she writhed against his thumb and kissed him frantically, moaning softly into his mouth and he brought her up and up and up and she was gone, blazing out into white space, lost in his taste and touch and body.

"Castle," she said when she opened her eyes, "come to bed." She didn't need to ask him twice.

In her bedroom, she made him stand while she undressed him slowly, taking her time and appreciating the wide body and nicely firm muscle, stroking over him and then kissing and nibbling over his chest, flicking her tongue across the flat dark nipples and making him gasp and groan. It was only fair, after all, since he'd teased her so much already. It was quite definitely her turn to play and it was quite _definitely_ unfair that after not nearly long enough he had caught her hands and tipped her back and they'd ended up on the bed – she was sure that wasn't accidental – with her underneath and him poised above her. She was fairly sure that when he'd so-slowly pushed into her she'd called out his name and he'd growled out hers in return, but everything else had been lost in the moment and the complete connection between them.

They had fallen asleep locked in each other's arms, and woken still tangled together. The shower had taken so long – and it really had not been her fault that they'd found so many ways to prolong it – that the hot water had run out, and then drying each other had taken them back to bed and there they had stayed. Well, she wasn't going to get dressed when she was still all sticky and sweaty and sexed-out, was she? And Castle certainly didn't seem to be objecting. Her hot water took a long time to refill, and they spent all of it snuggled up together in bed, talking about nothing and simply luxuriating in each other's company. Interspersed with some – er – more athletic interludes. She had liked every single bit of it. Even when he… ooohhhhh yes. _Especially_ when he…

She'd seen him out the door with a kiss that had almost resulted in them falling straight back into bed, and spent the rest of the day with a silly, sappy smile on her face; most unlike her, and wandered through her chores and shopping on a little pink cloud of happiness. Possibly it was a little residual whisky, but she really didn't think so. She was still blissfully happy when she went to bed, even if the bed (already? How could it be already?) felt a little empty.

But then the next day rolled around, and she went to work, and Castle behaved – well. _Not_ just like always. He didn't talk. He didn't flirt. He spent half his time over at the boys' desks and the other half pretty much anywhere but hers. He kept throwing half-glances at her and then not doing anything about them. In fact, he was hiding from her. All her good feelings about seeing him had drained away by mid-morning, replaced by a sick disappointment and a twisting pain that he'd got what he wanted and now he was backing off. She'd thought that he was more than that, that he wasn't the shallow playboy he might once have been. She concentrated on her work, and tried not to think that she could go to the restroom and cry.

By the time she could legitimately break off for lunch and get out of the bullpen to be alone for a while, she was utterly miserable. Naturally, that was when Castle sidled up to her.

"Beckett, we need to talk." Sure they did. Not. She knew how the conversation would unfold. "Let's go get some lunch." She could handle it. No problem. She had been through many similar conversations, from both sides.

"Okay," she replied, wholly composed. Surprisingly, he took the route to Remy's. She hadn't expected that: it implied a longer discussion than was necessary.

Castle ordered for both of them: also unexpected. Perfectly accurately, if she had any appetite at all. She sipped her milkshake and didn't try to make conversation. She had nothing to say: it wasn't okay. Not a good morning, at all.

"I don't know how to say this," he opened. Beckett supposed that that was quite possibly true. No doubt it would be difficult to find the right words to say _all I wanted was a one night stand but I'm still going to follow you so I can keep writing, sell millions of books and make another fortune_. "But… I wasn't quite telling the truth last night."

"I'd guessed that," Beckett said, Sahara-dryly, concealing her overwhelming desire simply to pour her milkshake over his head and walk out. "Just get on with it."

Castle cast a look of confusion towards her. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Talk, Castle. I need to get back." She couldn't help the sharp, impatient tone. He needed simply to say it and then she could leave.

"Um… well…"

"Hurry up."

"I'm calling in my winnings. I didn't tell you that I do have an undisclosed heart condition." She went white.

" _What_?" He took her hand.

"You bet your heart and you lost. I've got dibs on your heart, and I'm calling it in." She stared at him, open-mouthed, as he smiled at her. "You're the only one who can cure this condition."

She looked into his blue, blue eyes and realisation began to rise, simply from the look that he was giving her. Abruptly, the conversation became entirely different from the one she had been fearing. Hope bubbled up within her.

"What on earth do you mean?"

He clasped her hand between his, and smiled more widely.

"Castle…" Her fingers closed round his.

"It's only fair that you give me your heart. You've already won mine. I'm totally in love with you, Kate." His hands moved to cup her face.

"Do you think you can give your heart to a gambling man?"

"If you'll trust yours to a gambling woman."

"Let's throw the dice, then."

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and those who review._

 _To any would be trolls, you were amusing once, but since you're a terrible bore now I'll simply delete you. I don't reward attention-seeking in toddlers and that's how you're behaving._

 _This is a silly little fluff piece, because it arrived in my head from_ _another prompt of Mobazan's._ _I've used it to try something slightly different from my normal style. Virtual cookies to anyone who notices what it is, and thanks to anyone who will provide constructive comment on whether it works or not._

 _The prompt, incidentally, was simply "I have dibs on your heart."_

 _Rune (guest), if you're reading this, I couldn't answer as you didn't log in, but no, I certainly don't object._


End file.
